THE STRIPLING'S WAR SONG. IMITATED FROM STOLBERG. My noble old warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought; Ah! give me the sabre which hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought! O, despise not my youth! for my spirit is steel'd, And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I move to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear father-land. In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,-- The shrill of a trumpet suspended my breath; And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night Amid tumult and perils,'mid conquest and death. My own eager shout in the heat of my trance, How oft it awakes me from dreams full of glory, When I meant to have leap'd on the hero of France, And have dash'd him to earth pale and deathless and gory! As late through the city with bannerets streaming, And the music of trumpets the warriors flew by,-- With helmet and scymetar naked and gleaming On their proud trampling thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly,-- I sped to yon heath which is lonely and bare-- For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm,-- I hurl'd my mock lance through the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream prov'd the strength of my arm. Yes, noble old warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of thedeeds that our countrymen wrought; Ah! give me the falchion that hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought! [*] His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead, His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips, The sense, and spirit, and the light divine, At the same moment in his steadfast eye Were virtue's native crest, th' immortal soul's Unconscious meek self-heraldry,--to man Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. He suffer'd, nor complain'd;--tho' oft with tears He mourn'd th' oppression of his helpless brethren,-- Yea, with a deeper and yet holier grief Mourn'd for the oppressor. In those sabbath hours His solemn grief, like the slow cloud at sunset, Was but the veil of purest meditation Pierced thro' and saturate with the rays of mind. 'Twas sweet to know it only possible! Some wishes cross'd my mind and dimly cheer'd it, And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, Each in the pale unwarming light of hope Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by-- Moths in the moonbeam!-- --Behind the thin Grey cloud that cover'd, but not hid, the sky, The round full moon look'd small. The subtle snow in every passing breeze Rose curling from the grove like shafts of smoke. --On the broad mountain top The neighing wild colt races with the wind O'er fern and heath-flowers.